Albeit, he’s quintessence of Paul,
His cassock blots his evils,
Planting season, not a thing,
The rain, people’s faith,
Fertilizer, their prayers.
Himself he moulds an ox,
Under the heavy yoke crucifix.
He pulls the bible plough,
To prepare the church fields
And plants his congregation.
A holy course he pursues.
Crops trouble in the cowshed,
His polite pretence clouds the farmer,
Respect of his food the ox he gives,
Nosy bulls have scars by his horns and
Lovely heifers carry calves in their wombs,
Trouble; flowerless tree with fruits
A questionable claim on his holiness,
If you can’t,
Like me don’t live,
© Copyright 2016 barasakhisa. All rights reserved.
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